Gosh, it's more than a month since I last posted. I have been SO busy at work. And flat out exhausted when I got home. Then we had a week in Somerset in a holiday cottage, no internet access. However, it was not all hard work, on 9th April I met my old friend in London and we went to the Saturday matinee at the Haymarket Theatre.
This year is the centenary of Rattigan's birth. It's odd, how some people have a centenary absolutely plugged to the limit, and others pass almost unnoticed (here I am thinking of Elizabeth Gaskell, born 1810, whose 200 year milestone was unmarked last year, as far as I could see).
Anyway, Rattigan was a playwright, not a novelist, so it is down to theatre owners, producers and directors rather than the BBC, to mark the occasion, and mark it they have, big time. Trevor Nunn, a very famous and distinguished director, mounted this production, which stars the famous-for-being-phone-tapped Sienna Miller. She was good, actually. Better than I expected, for a movie actress acting on stage in a large old theatre without mikes.
My friend, Sheran, is exactly a year younger than me, to a week, and we met at York in 1974, when we were both studying English there, and shared a flat for one memorable year. We still share our love of books and literature.
We both agreed that this was a beautifully written old-fashioned drama, replete with emotion, completely transparent in that there was no subtext, no obscure symbolism nor Pinter-esque subterfuge, silences or any nasty business. It was heroic and poignant and ended happily. We absolutely loved it.
At the end of the first act, the auditorium is deafened by the sound of bombers taking off overhead, with a shadow picture of them projected above the stage. This brought tears to our eyes. We didn't actually live through World War II, but our fifties childhoods were absolutely saturated with it. I was born in May 1953, she in May 1954. Total baby-boomers, both of us, spoilt blue-eyed daughters of returning servicemen, we grew up surrounded by little boys playing soldiers, and listening to our elders recalling the bombs, the ration-books, the fear and uncertainty from day to day. No-one knew how it would end. Victory from our view today looks inevitable, but as they lived through it, our parents had no idea what was going to happen.
We grew up listening to air force slang, and didn't realise that it was slang, thinking that was how our fathers and uncles talked, and it was plain English.
Electrifying, this production recalled it all.
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Saturday, 19 March 2011
The End of an Era
The last independent shop, not part of any chain, in the town centre, has closed. When we moved to this town, 29 years ago, the centre was full of small family businesses, all of which fell victim to extortionate rents and council tax, and the pressure of huge mulit-million dollar international businesses, which could afford to take a hit here because they would make it up in some other city centre.
I really, really wanted to cry when I (ironically) cycled past the bike shop. Here we bought our children's first bikes, here we took their bikes to be repaired, here our children, now independent teenagers, went for advice on lights, helmets, cycle locks. And were always received by the proprietor with time, courtesy and a range of products to choose from, backed by expert advice. Only two months ago, I took my bike to be serviced, and it came back like new, with a new front light already fitted, and a free straightening of the front handle-bar which we only noticed was crooked as I was wheeling it out of the shop.
Now the window shows a pile of old second-hand televisions (overspill from the semi-pawn shop next door) and a sign reading "For Sale".
I really wanted to cry, but I found that my policy, developed over the last ten years or so, of never letting any person hurt to me that deeply, has had an unexpected side effect. My tears have dried up for others, as well as for myself. I wanted to be tougher, and now I am so tough, I can't express my sorrow for others.
This is perhaps not the result I wanted. Is there a way back for me from this place, I wonder?
I really, really wanted to cry when I (ironically) cycled past the bike shop. Here we bought our children's first bikes, here we took their bikes to be repaired, here our children, now independent teenagers, went for advice on lights, helmets, cycle locks. And were always received by the proprietor with time, courtesy and a range of products to choose from, backed by expert advice. Only two months ago, I took my bike to be serviced, and it came back like new, with a new front light already fitted, and a free straightening of the front handle-bar which we only noticed was crooked as I was wheeling it out of the shop.
Now the window shows a pile of old second-hand televisions (overspill from the semi-pawn shop next door) and a sign reading "For Sale".
I really wanted to cry, but I found that my policy, developed over the last ten years or so, of never letting any person hurt to me that deeply, has had an unexpected side effect. My tears have dried up for others, as well as for myself. I wanted to be tougher, and now I am so tough, I can't express my sorrow for others.
This is perhaps not the result I wanted. Is there a way back for me from this place, I wonder?
Wednesday, 16 March 2011
"Started Early, Took My Dog" by Kate Atkinson
Nearly all the books I buy are second hand (or much older than that). I get them from charity shops or from Amazon, both utterly inexhaustible treasure-chests of delight.
Occasionally, though, I can't wait for the latest best-seller to turn up in the Salvation Army shop.
Last week I bought the latest novel by Kate Atkinson, whose first book, "Behind the Scenes at the Museum" was set in York, my alma mater. That was prize-winning literary fiction, a one-off and hard to repeat, and in fact the author has never been able to repeat that strange, deep and eccentric genius, so this talented writer has more recently turned to detective fiction.
I bought this book from Sainsbury's on a "two-for £7.00" offer, and I paid for it with my Nectar vouchers so effectively it was free. I don't know why I feel compelled to share that information.
Just like the last four books of hers that I've read, I found this a completely compulsive page-turner. I read it in a little over 6 hours. I can be specific, because I read it on three return journeys by train, plus a few pages at the end finishing off at home.
Just like all her other books except the first, which was really quite mystical, this one left me feeling like you do after you've compulsively gobbled your way through a box of medium-quality chocolates. Stuffed, slightly depressed, and somewhat sick. Cheap chocs you don't finish, very expensive ones you can take in small doses and they don't leave you feeling any the worse. This is the range in between.
You feel sick because there are so many murders in the book, and so many really quite ridiculous co-incidences. Why keep on reading? Because of the story, you really want to find out what happens next. And because of the throw-away lines about modern Britain throughout the book, which keep you engaged, keep you waiting for the next one. This is really what it's like in UK in 2010, you think, I so recognize that.
Almost all KA's books have the murder of a child at the heart of the story. You would like to think that's unrealistic, but oh, no, it is all too easy to see echoes of so many real-life child victims .. dead children and lost - little Madeleine McCann and Shannon Matthews as well.
Quite a few deaths in this story, oh, no, not too far-fetched at all. I heard a real-life story from the factory manager at work today which matched one of the characters almost exactly - a man strangled his awkward ex-lover. In the real life case, the children had already lost their father to cancer, so they are now orphans. Just like the book.
KA leaves a marker for her next book at the end, as a third lost child is never explained, and we will have to wait to find out her story. I will no doubt buy this one new as well. Some books are worth it.
Occasionally, though, I can't wait for the latest best-seller to turn up in the Salvation Army shop.
Last week I bought the latest novel by Kate Atkinson, whose first book, "Behind the Scenes at the Museum" was set in York, my alma mater. That was prize-winning literary fiction, a one-off and hard to repeat, and in fact the author has never been able to repeat that strange, deep and eccentric genius, so this talented writer has more recently turned to detective fiction.
I bought this book from Sainsbury's on a "two-for £7.00" offer, and I paid for it with my Nectar vouchers so effectively it was free. I don't know why I feel compelled to share that information.
Just like the last four books of hers that I've read, I found this a completely compulsive page-turner. I read it in a little over 6 hours. I can be specific, because I read it on three return journeys by train, plus a few pages at the end finishing off at home.
Just like all her other books except the first, which was really quite mystical, this one left me feeling like you do after you've compulsively gobbled your way through a box of medium-quality chocolates. Stuffed, slightly depressed, and somewhat sick. Cheap chocs you don't finish, very expensive ones you can take in small doses and they don't leave you feeling any the worse. This is the range in between.
You feel sick because there are so many murders in the book, and so many really quite ridiculous co-incidences. Why keep on reading? Because of the story, you really want to find out what happens next. And because of the throw-away lines about modern Britain throughout the book, which keep you engaged, keep you waiting for the next one. This is really what it's like in UK in 2010, you think, I so recognize that.
Almost all KA's books have the murder of a child at the heart of the story. You would like to think that's unrealistic, but oh, no, it is all too easy to see echoes of so many real-life child victims .. dead children and lost - little Madeleine McCann and Shannon Matthews as well.
Quite a few deaths in this story, oh, no, not too far-fetched at all. I heard a real-life story from the factory manager at work today which matched one of the characters almost exactly - a man strangled his awkward ex-lover. In the real life case, the children had already lost their father to cancer, so they are now orphans. Just like the book.
KA leaves a marker for her next book at the end, as a third lost child is never explained, and we will have to wait to find out her story. I will no doubt buy this one new as well. Some books are worth it.
Sunday, 6 March 2011
"Astonishing Splashes of Colour" by Claire Morrall
Shortlisted for the 2003 Booker Prize and published by the Tindal Street Press, a small independent company based in Birmingham which also published the 2008 Costa winner, "What Was Lost" by Catherine O'Flynn. (The latter a simply amazing book about which I noted in my book diary "Best book I've read for years - comparable with JD Salinger".) Claire Morrall is not quite so good, but clearly in the same vein. The book is original, local (set in Birmingham), very easy to read, looks into a dysfunctional but very lovable loner's private inner life, and has an unhappy ending.
This is perfect entertainment reading. You feel very strongly for the central character, and will forgive her anything, (including snatching a new-born baby, and abducting a child) because of her unhappiness and sensitivity. There are some major plot surprises, too.
The author has since written a novel about a female sufferer from Asperger's syndrome. I will look out for that.
This is perfect entertainment reading. You feel very strongly for the central character, and will forgive her anything, (including snatching a new-born baby, and abducting a child) because of her unhappiness and sensitivity. There are some major plot surprises, too.
The author has since written a novel about a female sufferer from Asperger's syndrome. I will look out for that.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
"The Lost Child" by Julie Myerson
This book raised a media firestorm when it was published a couple of years ago. The author was widely reviled for writing about her own child in excruciating detail and honesty. She and her husband were interviewed on TV and asked whether they thought it was right to expose a living family member (and an immature one at that, who has a long way to go in life with this burden hanging over him) to public scrutiny in this way. The gist of their response was, that, upsetting as it was, it was important to tell the truth about drug addiction within a nice middle-class family, including the effects on the child himself and the immediate family circle. A further scandal was roused by the fact that the nice middle-class parents threw the child out of the family home. This was after his addiction became too damaging to the younger children, and his aggressive teenage attitude (recognisable to all parents of teenagers) moved one step further into violence.
At the time, I vowed not to buy the book, deeming that to contribute to coffers swelled by a public display of private misery was unethical.
I did, however hint to fellow-bloggers discussing the topic that I would not be above borrowing it from a library in due course. This I have now done.
I've read several books by JM and this is her best so far. Her fiction, whilst readable and persuasive, always has an undertone of forced articifice. Now you might say, that's fiction, but it works best if you are not aware of the fake. It feels like she said to herself, "Oh, I have a holiday home in Southwold, so I'll set a story in Southwold." Or, "I feel like a trip to Paris, so I'll go there, pick up some local vibe on expenses, and start a story about it."
Her best work to date, I thought, was "Home" in which she researched "The Story of Everyone Who Ever Lived in Our House." Some of the visits to record offices did become too detailed, and more severe editing would have been beneficial, but generally the story flew. Where it really took off, and you just wanted to know more and more, was when the author extrapolated from the known facts and imagined more details, and events that might have happened. Clearly this is her gift.
In "The Lost Child" the premise is that JM is asked to research and write about a young girl of the early 19th century, who died too young of tuberculosis, like many others in her family. This time, however, the story never takes off. Julie dutifully spends time sifting though boxes, uncovering documents in record offices and searching for inscriptions in graveyards. However, her mind is always on the state of her own eldest son, on his descent from a bright and helpful young teenager to a surly sloth, and further down still to enslavement by a 21st century scourge - drug-taking. This story takes over until the original theme fades into an almost superfluous backdrop.
Her son's picture appears in "Home" as an adored new-born in the arms of an "ecstatic" father, as a toddler "blonde and dimpled and dungareed", under the eerily prescient words "Where did that small child go?"
Did Julie tempt fate?
Or was there something the family could have done differently? Far be it from me to judge. The reader is swept along in the narrative of the author's own lost child, all the time wondering how the book could possibly end.
That's probably a question I am still asking. What HAS happened to Jake now? Did the spotlight that fell on him at eighteen redeem him from the crooked path he was following? Did he stick out the college course he enrolled for, and was he welcomed back into the family home? How are the parents coping now, with whatever has developed since his mother's final page?
Julie always wrote from the heart, or appeared to, in this book. The only time she stepped back into discretion was when she described the process of helping her son's former "girlfriend" to abort her possible grandchild. She was able to achieve remarkable detachment on that score, possibly for legal reasons. So I totally believed that she was writing verbatim when she reported the conversation with Jake after he read the book. He came across as remarkably rational and capable of analysing the situation dispassionately. "There is hope for this young man," I thought as I turned the final page. I hope I'm not wrong.
At the time, I vowed not to buy the book, deeming that to contribute to coffers swelled by a public display of private misery was unethical.
I did, however hint to fellow-bloggers discussing the topic that I would not be above borrowing it from a library in due course. This I have now done.
I've read several books by JM and this is her best so far. Her fiction, whilst readable and persuasive, always has an undertone of forced articifice. Now you might say, that's fiction, but it works best if you are not aware of the fake. It feels like she said to herself, "Oh, I have a holiday home in Southwold, so I'll set a story in Southwold." Or, "I feel like a trip to Paris, so I'll go there, pick up some local vibe on expenses, and start a story about it."
Her best work to date, I thought, was "Home" in which she researched "The Story of Everyone Who Ever Lived in Our House." Some of the visits to record offices did become too detailed, and more severe editing would have been beneficial, but generally the story flew. Where it really took off, and you just wanted to know more and more, was when the author extrapolated from the known facts and imagined more details, and events that might have happened. Clearly this is her gift.
In "The Lost Child" the premise is that JM is asked to research and write about a young girl of the early 19th century, who died too young of tuberculosis, like many others in her family. This time, however, the story never takes off. Julie dutifully spends time sifting though boxes, uncovering documents in record offices and searching for inscriptions in graveyards. However, her mind is always on the state of her own eldest son, on his descent from a bright and helpful young teenager to a surly sloth, and further down still to enslavement by a 21st century scourge - drug-taking. This story takes over until the original theme fades into an almost superfluous backdrop.
Her son's picture appears in "Home" as an adored new-born in the arms of an "ecstatic" father, as a toddler "blonde and dimpled and dungareed", under the eerily prescient words "Where did that small child go?"
Did Julie tempt fate?
Or was there something the family could have done differently? Far be it from me to judge. The reader is swept along in the narrative of the author's own lost child, all the time wondering how the book could possibly end.
That's probably a question I am still asking. What HAS happened to Jake now? Did the spotlight that fell on him at eighteen redeem him from the crooked path he was following? Did he stick out the college course he enrolled for, and was he welcomed back into the family home? How are the parents coping now, with whatever has developed since his mother's final page?
Julie always wrote from the heart, or appeared to, in this book. The only time she stepped back into discretion was when she described the process of helping her son's former "girlfriend" to abort her possible grandchild. She was able to achieve remarkable detachment on that score, possibly for legal reasons. So I totally believed that she was writing verbatim when she reported the conversation with Jake after he read the book. He came across as remarkably rational and capable of analysing the situation dispassionately. "There is hope for this young man," I thought as I turned the final page. I hope I'm not wrong.
Saturday, 26 February 2011
They say that the average person waits 9 years before seeking help for OCD
Trouble is, I can't remember when it started. All I do know, is that it started as a strategy so rational, so organised. After discovering cat-pooh on the bathroom carpet, (and aware of the germs carried in pet faeces), it seemed so sensible to ban outdoor shoes in the house.
After two bad doses of flu, it seemed so normal to wash my hands carefully after every visit to a toilet (even in my own house).
Somehow, I have morphed into a person who flies into a frenzy if anyone steps past the utility room in outdoor shoes, and provides visitors with indoor thick socks to wear (to their embarrassment).
I have morphed into a person who avoids touching any surface in public toilets with my bare hands. I use my sleeve to open and shut the cubicle, my coat-tails to grasp the heavier external door, toilet tissue to hold down the flush lever. And then I wash my hands three times and dry them with my own tissue kept in my coat pocket.
This all wastes a lot of time. At work, I keep Milton Steriliser fluid in the kitchen cupboard to rinse my mug at the end of the day. (It does a magical job of removing tea stains, too). I grasp the door handles with hand towel papers to make my exit. I turn up the bottoms of my trousers so that they don't touch the toilet floor.
Periodically, I clean my desk with Milton Steriliser fluid, which takes the shine off the surface.
Now that I've put all that down, it doesn't seem so bad, somehow. I don't think I'll seek help just yet.
After two bad doses of flu, it seemed so normal to wash my hands carefully after every visit to a toilet (even in my own house).
Somehow, I have morphed into a person who flies into a frenzy if anyone steps past the utility room in outdoor shoes, and provides visitors with indoor thick socks to wear (to their embarrassment).
I have morphed into a person who avoids touching any surface in public toilets with my bare hands. I use my sleeve to open and shut the cubicle, my coat-tails to grasp the heavier external door, toilet tissue to hold down the flush lever. And then I wash my hands three times and dry them with my own tissue kept in my coat pocket.
This all wastes a lot of time. At work, I keep Milton Steriliser fluid in the kitchen cupboard to rinse my mug at the end of the day. (It does a magical job of removing tea stains, too). I grasp the door handles with hand towel papers to make my exit. I turn up the bottoms of my trousers so that they don't touch the toilet floor.
Periodically, I clean my desk with Milton Steriliser fluid, which takes the shine off the surface.
Now that I've put all that down, it doesn't seem so bad, somehow. I don't think I'll seek help just yet.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Today I realise something new
I realised today why I am happy being an accountant. Some people might think a person who loves reading should be doing something more bookish - the books one does are not literary. I'm happy because I NEVER have to pretend to be more stupid than I am. Not for 40 hours of the week, anyway.
This revelation hit me after a visit to the breast cancer screening service. Being over 50, I am invited every three years to be screened. I missed my last visit, feeling that I was probably fine, the process was uncomfortable, and anyway, I'd read somewhere that the squashing might do more harm than good.
After a friend a year younger than me was diagnosed and operated on, my resolve was shaken. Then I read a marvellous book about the Victorians by Judith Flanders. The descriptions of the course things took when there was no treatment (other than the mastectomy without anaesthetic endured by Fanny Burney around the turn of the nineteenth century - she survived another 28 years) horrified me. The pain, the long, slow, debilitating death. Jane Austen's cousin, the delightful and fey Eliza de Feuillide, suffered the same fate.
I told the radiographer about the effect of the Victorian book. She looked at me as though I were mad. I immediately dumbed down, and made some self-derogatory remark.
It was later that I realised I never have to do this at work. The cleverer the better, in accountancy.
This revelation hit me after a visit to the breast cancer screening service. Being over 50, I am invited every three years to be screened. I missed my last visit, feeling that I was probably fine, the process was uncomfortable, and anyway, I'd read somewhere that the squashing might do more harm than good.
After a friend a year younger than me was diagnosed and operated on, my resolve was shaken. Then I read a marvellous book about the Victorians by Judith Flanders. The descriptions of the course things took when there was no treatment (other than the mastectomy without anaesthetic endured by Fanny Burney around the turn of the nineteenth century - she survived another 28 years) horrified me. The pain, the long, slow, debilitating death. Jane Austen's cousin, the delightful and fey Eliza de Feuillide, suffered the same fate.
I told the radiographer about the effect of the Victorian book. She looked at me as though I were mad. I immediately dumbed down, and made some self-derogatory remark.
It was later that I realised I never have to do this at work. The cleverer the better, in accountancy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)